( 236 ) 

 LINTON THE VALLEY OF ROCKS. 



'Tis eve ! 'tis fading eve ! how fair the scene, 



Ting'd with the soft hues of the glowing west ! 

 Dim hills afar, and happy vales between, 



With the tall corn's deep furrow calmly blest ! 

 More near the sea by eve's mild gale caress'd, 



And groves of living green that fringe its tide, 

 White sails that gleam on Ocean's bounding breast, 



And the light fisher-barks, that homeward glide, 

 To seek Clovelly's shores of beauty and of pride ! 



And hark ! the mingling sounds of earth and sea ! 



The pastoral music of the bleating flock, 

 Blent with the sea-bird's uncouth melody ; 



The wave's deep murmur to th' unheeding rock ; 

 And ever and anon th' impatient shock 



Of some rude billow on the echoing shore. 

 And hark ! the rower's deep and well-known stroke ! 



Glad hearts are there, and joyous hands once more 

 Weary the whitening wave with their returning oar ! 



But turn where Art with graceful hand hath twin'd 



The living wreath for Nature's placid brow, 

 Where the glad wand'rer's joyous footsteps wind 



'Mid rock, and glancing stream, and waving bough, 

 Where scarce the valley's leafy depths allow 



The lingering sunbeam in their shade to dwell : 

 There might the Naiad breathe her softest vow, 



Or the grim Triton sound his wreathed shell, 

 Lur'd from their azure home by scenes they love so well ! 



A softer beauty floats along the sky, 



And moonlight dwells upon the heaving wave : 

 Far off the night- winds fade away and die ; 



Or, murmuring, slumber in their ocean cave. 

 Tall oaks, whose limbs the giant-storm might brave, 



Bend in rude fondness o'er the silvery sea ; 

 Nor can the mountain-ash forbear to lave 



Her blushing clusters where the waters free 

 Murmur around her feet such soothing melody ! 



Beautiful valley ! in thy shades of rest, 



When timid Spring her pleasant task hath sped, 

 Or Summer pours, from her redundant breast, 



Her fruits and flow'rs along the vale's deep bed ; 

 But most when Autumn's golden glories spread, 



And half forget rude Winter's withering rage. 

 What fairer path could woo the wanderer's tread, 



Soothe wearied Hope, or worn Regret assuage ? 

 Lo ! for firm youth a bower ! a home for lapsing age ! 



